A/N: A rather dark perspective on my favorite female Naruto character, Mitarashi Anko. Enjoy. :)
She might have been many things. People named her freaky, psychotic, or even batshit insane. Her colleagues dubbed her approach-with-caution. Some of her students called her extremely terrifying.
But there was only one to whom she allowed herself to be given a nickname, just because she liked the sound of it coming out from his kisses-laying mouth:
"Mine."
She always had her front door open for him. He arrived with silent demands when she understood and who was she to refuse? She let him crawl battered and bruised to the bedspread and herself waiting patiently. For him hers was a tender embrace, but for her it was a fervent grip, the one you use when you claim something to be rightfully yours. He would diminish under her touch, no longer wearing the façade of toughness he'd been so well known of. No; before her and only her, he was a plasticine.
She loved molding things since she was a child. Curious and keen, was she really, and her sensei was very much helpful back then. He taught her how to shape and create figures from clay. It was her favorite thing to play with, mostly because snakes were the easiest to form. And she liked the smile in sensei's face when she showed him her handicrafts. She liked it when he bent over to whisper, "Mine."
When sensei left her alone, he took away her passions with him. She refused to even see clay for years.
But then he came along.
And he called her his.
He said that he'd never been truly exposed, mentally or physically, to anyone before. She was the singular exception. He told her about his father, his deceased teammates, his concern for his students. He admitted that being with her was the first time he felt comfort after so long.
Watching him so soft, so bare like that reminded her of the plain piece of clay she used to play with. When he was writhing and hissing on her bed she thought of her serpent-shaped creation.
And when he started calling her "mine", she knew that she had found a new toy.
She let him come back for more. Correction; she made him come back for more.
More was never enough for him, it seemed.
It's been a tiring day, she said once, not now, come back later.
She hid her smile upon seeing the pleading look in his visible eye. Long after she closed the door, he remained there, leaning on the doorframe. She had to "let" him in, eventually. He practically leaped in eagerness.
He was such an exciting toy.
He liked to lie there for hours to stare, just to stare at her. She didn't mind at all. She savored the adoration. Even better, he loved worshipping her.
She had molded him good.
Then he would plant his palm on her cheek. He would lean on her ear and whisper, "You're mine."
She trailed a finger on his figure. It was a loving touch, a gentle caress. Her lips curved into a smile.
No, darling. You. Are. MINE.
end.
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